


Absence makes

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [8]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Repressed Feelings, but feelings nonetheless, everyone is in a glass case of emotion basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: At last, Alfie says “What do you want, then?” in such a casual tone that Tommy is instantly convinced it has to be an act, though he couldn’t possibly say for sure. He shrugs, pushes his hands a bit deeper into his pockets so he won’t be tempted to start fidgeting; except he can feel the cigarette packet and then he has to fight the urge to take that out and light up.“Can I come in?”In which some people have been ignoring other people, and everyone has as a lot of feelings about it.





	Absence makes

Tommy isn’t sure what he expected.

He’s pretty fucking certain that of all the possible outcomes, actual silence was very low on the list and yet – Alfie just stands there on his own doorstep, squinting at Tommy like he’s never seen him before and doesn’t say a single word. Doesn’t look surprised, or confused, or angry even, face completely blank and silent.

He’s in just his shirt, suspenders dangling from his hips, sleeves rolled up carelessly – they’re uneven, one lower than the other. A few strands of his hair are sticking up at odd angles. There’s smudged ink on the inside of one of his forearms, just above one of the bracelets. Overall, he looks like somebody just forcefully dragged him out of bed after he fell asleep there drunk, except Tommy knows for a fact that isn’t true; Alfie just can’t be fucking bothered with the details of things he deems unimportant most of the time. And it shouldn’t be attractive, because it’s not an attractive look, not by _any_ standards, except inexplicably, somehow it _is._

“Need to go get your glasses?” Tommy says as dryly as possible, after the silence has dragged on for an uncomfortable amount of time; trying to hide the fact that his heart is racing. Jesus Christ, he realizes with something resembling actual nausea, he’s _missed_ him.

“Yeah, well, joke’s on you, mate,” Alfie says, like that was a serious suggestion, and waves his left hand around. He is, in fact, holding his glasses. “Don’t need to go get anything, do I.”

He doesn’t move aside, or tells Tommy to fuck off, or so much as crosses his arms; he just stands there, in the middle of the doorway, with that unreadable expression on his face and stares at him.

At last, he says “What do you want, then?” in such a casual tone that Tommy is instantly convinced it _has_ to be an act, though he couldn’t possibly say for sure. He shrugs, pushes his hands a bit deeper into his pockets so he won’t be tempted to start fidgeting; except he can feel the cigarette packet and then he has to fight the urge to take that out and light up.

“Can I come in?”

Alfie blinks, like that possibility hasn’t even occurred to him, and that might be an act as well – Christ, Tommy thinks, unreasonably angry all of a sudden, it’s like he can’t read him _at all_ anymore. Which is fucking bullshit, honestly, because it’s been six weeks since they’ve last seen each other, not six fucking years.

Alfie’s gaze is drawn to the left of Tommy’s shoulder now, staring like something more interesting is happening there, head tilted to the side. Tommy waits him out. Eventually, Alfie’s focus shifts back to him; he furrows his brow, and then makes an unidentifiable noise and clears the doorway.

Tommy gets inside before he can change is mind. Up close, Alfie is noticeably tense – he keeps himself carefully still, but it’s radiating off of him like intent radiating off of a sprinter, seconds before the race starts. Thank God, Tommy thinks, which probably isn’t a smart reaction to have, especially since he’s personally witnessed Alfie beating people within an inch of their life when he gets like this; all pent up energy and controlled, minimal movements, the calm before the storm.

Alfie closes the door and then the additional security gate, locks clicking into place and then they’re standing next to each other in the dim hallway, not quite looking at each other. Alfie turns towards him, puts an arm against the wall and crowds into his space; too close to be anything but obvious, but not quite touching either. Tommy moves with him automatically, leans against the wall, tipping his head back a bit and now they’re staring at each other, strangely defiant.

“Right,” Alfie says, still casual. “Let’s try this again, shall we? What the fuck, right, what _the fuck_ do _you_ want?”

And the thing is – he’s saying the right words, and he’s doing all the right things and it kind of works, even, because despite everything Tommy can feel arousal pool in the pit of his stomach already; through proximity alone, probably, because… fuck. It’s been six weeks and it’s _Alfie,_ for better or for worse; it’s the way he smells and the way his hair is curling at the nape of his neck and the way his underarm looks, resting against the wall like that, taking part of his weight. It's the way his eyes have gone dark and hot. But any other time this would set Tommy off like somebody lit him on fire, he thinks, leave him breathless and wanting more, but right now he can’t shake the feeling Alfie seems weirdly detached, somehow, even though he’s close enough to touch – because he could have flattened Tommy against the wall by now, or put a hand on his throat, or _kissed him-_

“Bedroom?” Tommy rasps and clears his throat afterwards, for all the good that is going to do after the fact.

Alfie narrows his eyes at him, looks him over once again, head to toe, except this time it is even slower and more deliberate than before. He wants Tommy to see it.

“Thought you’d never asked,” he says then, but it sounds like a blatant lie – like that is the exact thing he was expecting Tommy to ask.  

 

* * *

 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re tight,” Alfie says later, sounding surprised.

It’s the first thing he’s said since they made it to the bed, apart from “Just… put it over there” when Tommy floundered a bit before, because the usual place where he puts his gun is occupied with a pile of books now. Everything else has been awkward as well, but it’s not like they’ve never had an awkward fucking start before – if general awkwardness was a deal breaker, they’d have never, ever managed to start fucking in the first place.

Tommy blinks up at him.

“Well, yeah,” he manages, already hoarse, then adds “…why wouldn’t I-” before trailing off, realization dawning. All of a sudden, he’s absolutely furious – grabs Alfie’s wrist to make him stop and pushes himself into an upright position. Alfie takes the hint and pulls out, but doesn’t move a muscle otherwise, just sits there and watches him scramble away.

 _“Fuck you,”_ Tommy hisses, which is something he tells Alfie a lot, in bed and out of it, but he’s never meant it quite like this before. He can’t even properly identify how he feels right now; a strange mix of embarrassment, anger and something else, something unidentifiable that makes the blood pound in his ears. Alfie, fuck him, has figured out the issue already, because of course he fucking has.

“All due fuckin’ respect, mate,” he says and he sounds angry somehow, low and tense. It seems like the first real sentence he has said until now and in addition to that, it feels like they’re in the middle of this discussion already, even though they’ve barely even started having it at all. “But this is on you, yeah, ‘cause what the fuck am I s’pposed to think, hm, if you just fuck off for weeks on end-”

“All right, yes, so I didn’t call you back for a while – so naturally, in the meantime I went and fucked half of Birmingham instead!”

Alfie takes a breath to say something, but Tommy cuts him off before he’s even halfway finished. Objectively, he knows that he has no fucking reason to feel this betrayed – it’s not like they ever agreed on anything and on top of that, _he’s_ the one who just ignored Alfie for over a month, he’s painfully aware of that fact – but it actually fucking _stings._ What the hell is even going on, he thinks, blinking rapidly, why the fuck is he reacting this way?

“But yeah, you’re right. There was a fucking _line,”_ and he doesn’t know what the hell he is saying; he’s not even sure what his voice is doing right now, because it sounds _awful._ “People were- they were queuing up, eh? And I just _bent the fuck over-”_

He can see the exact moment Alfie gets it, even though he is isn’t even sure at this point what there is _to_ get – but there is _something,_ hell if he could explain it, and Alfie just… got it, whatever it is, because it’s what he always does. Some kind of tensions seems to seep out of him, shoulders dropping.

“C’mere,” he says and Tommy doesn’t move, just sits there and stares at him, resolutely ignoring the stinging in his eyes; but it doesn’t matter, because Alfie is already moving closer, carefully, like somebody might approach a spooked animal. He cups the back of Tommy’s neck, tucks his thumb under his ear and then they’re kissing; Tommy kind of stiff and unresponsive at first, trying to maintain _some_ dignity, until he suddenly isn’t anymore and they’re _kissing,_ deep and kind of desperate, Alfie pushing him down onto the bed again.

They settle against each other, Tommy flat on his back, Alfie tucked against his side, half on top of him, still cupping his face with one hand. Eventually, he lets go and slides his hand back down, very slowly, thumbing a nipple on the way, stroking over the sharp jut of Tommy’s hipbone with his fingertips for a while, before his hand is between Tommy’s legs again.

Then he just circles the rim for a long time, not pushing inside, despite the fact that they’ve gotten past that point already – slow and unhurried, like they’ve got all the time in the world, spreading the oil around and rubbing at him until Tommy can’t even focus on kissing anymore, desperately panting against his mouth. Eventually Alfie sits up and moves downwards, to shoulder Tommy’s legs apart and comfortably settle between them. _Then_ he spends what feels like an actual eternity fingering him open, almost lazily putting his mouth on Tommy’s cock in the meantime; pressing kisses to the base, licking up the length of it with the flat of his tongue and gently sucking at the head.

Time slows to a crawl, slow and dripping like molasses; until Tommy is fisting the sheets with one hand and Alfie’s hair with the other, helplessly rolling his hips into every slow thrust of his fingers, legs shaking with how good it feels.

“Enough,” he manages finally, barely even recognizing his own voice. “S’fine, m’fine… you can- you have to-”

Which usually would be the point Alfie decides to be an asshole about it, asking him to clarify, asking him if he’s _really_ _sure_ about this, just to make him say it out loud, but not this time. This time he moves back up the bed without comment, and then they’re kissing again, with a lot more urgency than before.

“Alfie,” Tommy tries again and uselessly pushes at his shoulder, because Alfie is on top of him, their erections not quite lining up and Tommy can _feel_ him, hard and burning hot against his hip – and it is _maddening,_ God, he wants him inside, he wants to be fucked, he _needs-_

Alfie makes a humming noise that sounds like agreement and sucks on Tommy’s lower lip until it stings, and Tommy needs him to _move_ already, he’s so slick and open right now, clenching around nothing, and it’s making his head spin, _Christ_ – Alfie did that, he thinks, teased him open just right and now here they are, with Tommy practically begging for it; Alfie _made_ him like that, because he can and he still _wants_ to, for whatever fucking reason-

“All right?” Alfie murmurs against his cheek.

“Fuckin’ _move_ already, Jesus Christ,” Tommy snaps – which makes Alfie snort despite everything, an amused sound, and then he says, very businesslike, “Right then. Here we go.”

He starts working himself inside and he wasn’t wrong, it _is_ tight, but it’s bearable, Tommy thinks, it’s all good, he can do this, it’s going to be fine. He tries to relax the muscles in his back, feels sweat break out as the adrenaline kicks in. Alfie takes his time with this as well – carefully fucks him open, with the same unhurried pace he’s applied to everything else until now, fucks inside and then withdraws almost all the way before coming back, pushing just a bit deeper than before.

Tommy is so overwhelmed with how it feels that he doesn’t even realize at first that the motion has stopped because Alfie is done – he’s bottomed out, waiting for Tommy to adjust, and now they’re left just staring at each other.

“I didn’t, by the way,” Tommy says hoarsely, apropos of fucking nothing – and he doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up _now,_ why he’s bringing it up at all, but he can’t seem to stop himself. His face feels hot, hands nervously twisting in the pillowcase underneath his head. “Case you were wondering.”

Alfie tilts his head, makes a questioning noise. His eyes are very dark and his mouth looks wet and bruised, and he’s staring at Tommy like he’s forgotten the rest of the world even exists. God, Tommy thinks, a shiver going through him, why the fuck are they having this conversation _right now,_ when Alfie is buried this deep inside of him, stretching him open and making his legs feel completely useless. Why couldn’t he bring this up later?

Still, he mumbles, “Didn’t fuck half of Birmingham,” barely even audible, and then, horrifyingly, some part of his brain decides to add, “Didn’t fuck _anybody,_ all right?”

He stubbornly stares at Alfie’s collarbone after that, because Jesus Christ, he’s not even sure what he just admitted to, but it feels big. Monumental even – like he gave away too much and made absolutely no sense at the same time. Above him, Alfie has gone very quiet and very still.

Tommy doesn’t know what his face is doing, feels like he has no control at all, like his heart might beat right out of his chest. He can feel Alfie bending down, how he’s letting one of his elbows buckle, but he still can’t bear to look and so it’s almost a surprise when Alfie kisses him again. The kiss is chaste – or would be, if it wasn’t for everything else that’s going on right now – because Alfie fits their mouths together very carefully, soft and deliberate, pulls back a bit before he does it again.

“Yeah, all right,” he murmurs quietly. “Do us a favor and just forget everything I said, right, ‘cause clearly, I’m a bloody idiot.”

“I know _that,”_ Tommy says immediately and doesn’t even recognize his own voice because it sounds so rough. “Could’ve told you that, seriously-”

He can _feel_ Alfie start to grin at the insult and for some reason this is it, _this_ is the last straw; Tommy makes a fist in his hair, pulls him down and kisses him hard, biting at his mouth. And suddenly, they’re fucking – _really_ fucking, from one second to the next, no transition at all, clutching at each other like men drowning. Alfie’s free hand ends up on Tommy’s thigh, drags it upwards against his side, opening Tommy up wide for better access; fingers digging in so hard there’ll probably be bruises tomorrow. 

The first time he gets the angle right is almost a shock – which is ridiculous, honestly, because they’ve done this for what seems like a thousand times at this point, and Tommy _knows_ what it feels like, but it’s almost like he forgot, or started to doubt the memory or something, because the sensation pulses through him, entirely unexpected and so, _so_ good. His head tips back without his permission, his whole back arching into it. _God,_ fuck, _yes._

“Right there, hm?” Alfie says, breathless, but he still manages to sound fucking smug about it. “Yeah? That’s where you want it?”

“Oh, _shut_ the fuck _up-”_ Tommy says, immediately and without thinking, and for some inexplicable reason it almost makes him smile, even though his face has gone hot with embarrassment – it makes him feel giddy with relief, right in the middle of everything, because weirdly it almost feels like coming home.

Which is completely fucking insane, clearly, so he’s not going to examine it too closely.

Alfie keeps going, angling his thrusts, manages to hit the perfect spot almost every time, because he’s scarily good at this; which is another detail Tommy inexplicably forgot about, and now he just keeps moaning every time they move together, low and desperate, because it’s the only thing he seems to know how to do anymore.

“Oh, _hell,”_ Alfie says above him, when Tommy puts his palms flat against the headboard, to have more leverage to push back against him – half-groans it really. “Just look at you. _Fuck.”_

They don’t last long after that. Alfie lets him finish first – except apparently he’s so close already he doesn’t even manage to fuck him through it, losing it about five seconds after Tommy starts coming. They shake through it together, graceless and panting. Alfie all but collapses on top of him after, which should feel suffocating, but feels like relief instead; mindlessly patting Tommy’s hip and then the top of his head.

Later, when the afterglow has worn off, they’re lying next to each other with a few careful inches of separation between them. Not that they used to _cuddle_ after sex, exactly, but most of the time there was some kind of contact, even if it was just their shoulders touching. Tommy couldn’t say why, but he knows with absolute certainty that Alfie isn’t going to speak first – which is a monumental occasion all by itself, really. 

“I’m not…” he starts, then says, “I didn’t mean to…”

He knows he’s got Alfie’s full attention, despite the fact that Alfie is currently looking at his hands, twisting the ring on his pinkie around with his free hand. He seems pensive, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t really have an explanation,” is what Tommy ultimately settles on, because it’s true. He almost said _excuse_ instead of explanation, but he feels already uneasy, shaky with confession – like he admitted too much before, in the heat of the moment, when he told Alfie that he hasn’t been with anybody else.

And then, out of nowhere, it suddenly occurs to him that _Alfie_ might’ve fucked somebody else in the meantime. If he honestly thought that Tommy was done – with him, with this, with whatever it is they’ve been doing – and wasn’t going to come back… He very easily could have, Tommy thinks, stomach churning, could’ve payed somebody, even, because Tommy doesn’t actually know that much about what he got up to before they started doing this. In addition to that, they’ve never clearly specified… _anything,_ really. Which is a ridiculous thought anyway, because why would they? It’s not like they’re _together._

And in all honesty, a small voice inside his head pipes up, Alfie might very well have decided at some point that this wasn’t worth his time and effort – that he could just get off with somebody who wasn’t a dangerous option, just by circumstances alone, and who didn’t make him jump through hoops on top of everything else – because the thing is, Alfie _did_ try to contact him.

He made Ollie call a few times, which were phone calls Tommy refused to take as inconspicuously as possible, and after that, he sent three telegrams in the span of two weeks. The contents were cryptically bland each and every time, but it’s not like Tommy can blame him for that, because it’s not like Alfie could just write it out – quick question, mate, are we done fucking or what? – and it’s not like Tommy didn’t get the message loud and clear anyway.

Which was – _is_ – part of the problem, really, because it freaks him out like few things ever have, sometimes; the fact that he can look at a piece of paper that makes one vague reference to the ten plagues of Egypt and immediately want to roll his eyes, feeling horrifyingly fond, because he knows exactly what Alfie meant by that.

 “…right,” Alfie says now, slowly. He’s still playing around with his rings; switching them around randomly and then restoring the original pattern, because he always moves them out of the way if he puts his fingers up Tommy’s ass, if he hasn’t taken them all off before bed already. “And you couldn’t have just, I don’t fuckin’ know, maybe _said_ _that?_ So I didn’t…”

He uncharacteristically trails off,  demonstratively shoves a hand under his head instead, still not looking over.

“You know what, mate,” he says then. “Never fucking mind. Right. You staying the night?”

“Say what,” Tommy prompts, not letting the subject go, because it took three days for him to work up the nerve to knock on Alfie’s door again and now that they’re actually having this conversation, he’s not going to give up this easily. “What the fuck was I supposed to tell you? That I was just going to disappear for a bit, no reason really, see you in a few weeks?”

“Ohh no, no, ‘course not,” Alfie says and now there’s genuine anger in his voice. “I _love_ making a fuckin’ idiot of myself, don’t I, that’s _so much better_ – it’s the bloody highlight of my week, yeah, trying to figure out what the elusive Tommy Shelby could possibly mean by the shit he does or doesn’t do-”

“I don’t _know_ why!” Tommy says loudly, which isn’t entirely true, but it’s not exactly a lie either “All right? I don’t know, I just, I needed to-”

“I’m not fuckin’ asking _why,_ am I!” Alfie fires back, just as loud.

“Fine!” Tommy shouts. “Next time you can have fuckin’ advance warning, how about that-”

Then he stops dead in his tracks, embarrassment rushing through him like he’s just been hit by lightning; _next time,_ what the actual fuck, why did he have to say that? Who even knows if Alfie is going to stick around for a next time; if he’s even remotely interested after this shitshow – because they’re post-coital and screaming at each other, which can’t be an appealing prospect, no matter how you look at it. 

“Next time,” Alfie says, instead of asking Tommy who the fuck he thinks he is, or if he’s lost his fucking mind. It just sounds like a statement, like he’s making sure he heard that right.

“Probably,” Tommy says, with a lot more effort than any single word should ever take. “S’not like… I, I don’t bloody _schedule_ these things.”

“Hmm,” Alfie says and it almost sounds like agreement, like that made perfect sense.

There is a moment of silence.

“Advance warning next time, then?”

“…if you want,” Tommy murmurs, inexplicably embarrassed. His ears feel hot and he’s longing for a cigarette. Still, he doesn’t seem to be done talking yet, Jesus Christ, because he’s still stuck on the fact that Alfie might have fucked somebody else, a hot, ugly feeling, curling underneath his ribs. “Since it’s been six weeks…”

 _Fuck,_ how is he going to say this?

“S’none of my business, really, just… I mean, since I didn’t… not that it’s important, really, but did you…?”

“If you’re asking,” Alfie says, and of course he guesses it with terrifying accuracy, of _course_ he fucking does, “…if _I_ fucked half of Birmingham, yeah, then first of all – don’t even have the fuckin’ time for that, do I. And second of all-”

“Second of all, it’s fuckin’ _Birmingham,_ mate, innit,” Tommy says as seriously as possible, trying to imitate him; trying to cover up that his heart is racing, all of a sudden.

“Oi,” Alfie says, indignant. “That’s _not_ what I sound like, thank you very much.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“And _second of all,”_ Alfie starts again, undeterred. “What I was gonna say, yeah, before you took it upon yourself – and it is entirely unnecessary, right, _entirely unnecessary_ to mock a man and his manner of expressing himself in his _own bedroom-”_

“Depends on the man, eh?”

“-I _was_ gonna say, right, since apparently that doesn’t count for anything, that I _am_ , as a bloody matter of fact, currently fucking somebody _from_ that godforsaken hellhole of a city, hm? Don’t I? Can we agree on that, at least?”

Tommy shrugs, trying very hard not to care, except for whatever reason, he feels almost weak with relief.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I… I guess.”

“Well, that’s a glowing fucking endorsement, innit,” Alfie says sarcastically, but his eyes are warm.

“Shut up,” Tommy murmurs and turns on his side; curling into him and pushing his forehead against Alfie’s shoulder. He can hear Alfie take a breath at that, a quick inhale that sounds like he’s surprised. Then he is wrapping an arm around him, quick and sure, pulling him close. He’s radiating heat and he smells like sex, and it kind of makes Tommy want to… he’s not even _sure._ Makes him feel hot and shivery, like he wants to roll over for Alfie again or suck him down until both of them can’t even breathe anymore or just stay like this, bury his face against Alfie’s neck and not move at all.  

 _Next time,_ he thinks hastily, to distract himself as much as anything, apparently there is going to be a _next time_ now. This is probably significant in some way, but he’s too tired and satisfied to think about it in too much detail. Can do that later, he decides.

Since he’s staying the night and everything.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on this [list of headcanons](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/post/185546302807/thank-you-for-those-headcanons-i-would-actually), which then got reblogged by [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx) with some excellent tags, so none of this is my fault, really. I refuse to take any responsibility.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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